


sticks & stones

by peachboyf



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-18 19:43:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20644634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachboyf/pseuds/peachboyf
Summary: (you’re so much, crowley.)





	sticks & stones

“You go too fast for me, Crowley…” 

And, wow, that hurts to hear doesn’t it. It’s not meant how Crowley take it, but he takes it to heart all the same. It sounds like Aziraphale thinks Crowley doesn’t know that. As if Crowley doesn’t measure every word and smile and look with the precision of a master. As if he isn’t so, so careful not to do this. Not to overstep his bounds.

Aziraphale leaves like he’s overstepped too far to make up.

Crowley watches him. He sits and stares in his car as Aziraphale looks both ways before stepping across the road, but doesn’t look back. There isn’t quite a hop in his step, but Aziraphale doesn’t move slow. He’s going somewhere with purpose, and Crowley would give anything to know where. (_that isn’t your business, remember?_) There aren’t any tears or that tight feeling in the throat or anything of the sort but Crowley feels like there should be. He is sure that longing should be clogging his pores, and oozing from him in droves. 

Crowley picks his shades from where they’ve slid down his nose. He rubs a hand over his eyes to drive this aching tiredness from his bones. He wonders what Aziraphale would think of something so human as exhaustion. Crowley shakes his head of the thoughts, blanking on a pretty smile and the wrinkles that frame it. It doesn’t quite work as his eyes land on the thermos when he blinks them open.

As Crowley replaces his glasses, he thinks. He thinks of Aziraphale permitting the little dangers to prevent something much, much worse from having even a chance of happening. He thinks of other little things that Aziraphale has let slip. He thinks of what else Aziraphale will let slip. 

(_you’re so much, crowley._)

Crowley sits straight, a creak of leather echoing the movement. 

One hand finds the wheels as the other turns the key in the ignition. The familiar roll of the engine greets him, and Crowley doesn’t check twice before peeling off. He imagines the screech of tires as he races down the street. It’s too easy for him to find his way to the abandoned roads. The roads that aren’t good for his car, but are good for his soul.

Gravel crunches underneath the tires, spitting into the air as he takes a tight corner. It’s loud as it clinks against metal and grinds under his tires. His tongue shifts and flicks against the roof of his mouth, too long for this body. He can taste his own anger on the air blanketed by dust, but it’s acrid with upset. Hid fingers curl and curl, white without circulation. He flings his shades off his face with a jerk of his head, uncaring as they bounce into the floorboards. He blinks, one twice thrice, as his eye expand like a deep breath. His foot presses harder on the gas as he whips the car around. His tires leave a divot through the dirt-grass-hay of someone’s lawn (_how long will that stay. what will they think happened here?_) as Crowley barrels back down forgotten roads.

Before Crowley can prepare, Aziraphale is there. Except he isn’t, it’s Crowley fooling himself. The halfway of a memory that Crowley tries to forget. It’s hard, though. Who could forget the feeling of Aziraphale willingly? Somehow cold-heat and incorporeal and fluttering. The brush of feathers that are all imagined, but real in some plane. His heart beats itself out of steady time, brushing up a racket in his chest. Crowley can remember the feeling of _being_ with Aziraphale. The room temperature calm, like another oil painting of flowers in a vase. Even as his body feels like it might rattle apart with the pressure, he wants with every brick, stick, and stone of this house he's built.

(_what pressure?_)

Just like that everything comes to not quite a standstill. Crowley is back on a real road. His car is aimless as it strolls. Crowley’s hands are tight on the steering wheel, gripping until the leather groans at him and his fingers echo it. He can’t bring himself to relax them, unsure of what might happen to him if he does. Crowley leans back. His head lolls, and he pulls the car to a halt on the side of the road. He can see buildings in the distance, shadows on the horizon or something like it.

**Author's Note:**

> do you ever try something new with your writing and like it too much?


End file.
